Post by Teegan on May 25, 2018 4:31:12 GMT -5
Brandon Rookblade
The murmur of the witches and wizards in the stands wasn't anything near what he had heard the Wisconsinites give for their Muggle sports team, the Green Bay Packers, but he also knew that there were not nearly as many witches and wizards that loved the Wolves as there were muggles that loved the Packers. He had traveled everywhere in the United States to play Quidditch, and no matter where he went, he'd meet at least one person that would lovingly speak about this 'Football' team that wore green and gold. He wished his upstart team had such a following.
Sure, the magical community in this state were ecstatic to learn they were finally getting a Quidditch team after nearly 230 years of the forming of their country, but the turnouts had been less than the Wolves had hoped for. Their popularity was growing, season by season, but the stadium was only half full for their home games, still a far cry from those at Lambeau Field in Green Bay. The Wisconsin Wolves Quidditch team, set a bit outside Hayward, Wisconsin, were playing another game in their stadium meant to house seventy-three thousand people. Due to their love of the muggle sport of "Football" (even Brandon had started to love it), they had modeled the stadium after the famous field in Green Bay, a few hours away. It was modified for the Wizarding Sport, of course, but meant to hold the same amount of people. "If individuals were going to drive to Green Bay, two hours away form Milwaukee, then why shouldn't they travel up to Hayward for a Quidditch match", the owners had argued.
Brandon sat high above the action, his gray robes with gold trimming flapping lazily in the breeze. The score wasn't looking good. The Scottsdale Saguaros were beating them handily- 150 to 300. While the players in this stadium weren't nearly as fantastic or agile as those Brandon had watched as a child in England, he still had to hand it to them; They were a bit more physical. Football here in America had seeped into the sport in almost every way possible. Some of the rules for roughing other players had been laxed a bit, and time outs were more of a thing.
He watched the Chasers whiz about, passing the Quaffle back and forth, he watched as the Bludgers were hit to and fro, although most ignored him for being as high up as he was. He wasn't worried about those, he was only worried about one thing; The Golden Snitch. He had been signed on almost instantly when the team leaders heard he had played for Hogwarts and was playing in America before moving back home to Britain.
His eyes scanned the field, much as it did back in his Hogwarts days, hoping to catch a glint of the elusive, flying ball. He had been hunting it for a good three hours at this point, his patience wearing thin. He noticed the other seeker, Miranda Gill, had dropped below the game and was looking from a different angle. He cursed himself for not thinking of that sooner. With a game going this late into the night as this, if the Snitch was flying high, the lights would never reach it up here. He shot downwards in a steep dive, putting a determined look on his face. This maneuver had worked at Hogwarts, why couldn't it work here?
"Rookblade drops into a steep dive," the announcer called, happily, "has he seen the Snitch?" He angled himself to the far side of the field from her, taking one hand off the broom. As he shot past one of his beaters, he yelled "Take her out," his eyes never leaving his invisible prize. Boulton nodded to him, taking off after a bludger. Brandon grimaced as his broom reached top speed, and he pulled himself into a mind-numbing U-turn near the ground. He saw Miranda draw up behind him, using him to draft her way closer to the prize she though was before him. He reached out a hand at nothing, smiling as Boulton called down "Rook-up!" Brandon wrenched his broom skyward as the bludger came hurtling toward him. It passed inches below the twigs of the back of his broom, only to collide with the woman that had, until recently, been hot on his tail. There was a sickening crunch a moment later as the ball collided with her face, and an audible gasp from the crowd as she fell the twenty feet from her broom to the grass below.
"An amazing feint by the Wolves' Seeker, aided by his beater," the announcer blared, "the medical staff were already on their way out when they realized what Rookblade was doing." Brandon cheered internally upon hearing this. His opposing seeker was out of the game, and he had less competition now. He chanced a look back at the unfortunate woman, though his eyes never focused on her, as when he did so, a tiny, golden ball sped past, inches from his face. He pulled up until he was flying with the ground above him, the wind rushing through his ears.
As he righted himself, the announcer cheered "Rookblade's seen it this time," the chase hot in pursuit. He knew that if he caught the Snitch now, the game would end in a tie. He had to put his faith in his chasers that they'd score before he caught the little thing. His eyes narrowed, focusing in on the Snitch as "The Wolves take possession on the Quaffle" blared in his ears. This was good news. Now all he had to do was follow until they scored...
"Oh, that looks like it hurts," the announcer screamed. Brandon didn't dare turn his eyes away from the sphere of gold before him to see what happened. Doing so could mean ending the game in moments or searching for another three hours. He leaned forward, willing his broom to go even faster than it had before, trying to catch up. He drew nearer, his focus only on the ball, when he heard "SCORE!" ring in his ears. His hand darted off the broom and reached for the Snitch. "SCORE! AMAZING SHOT," Echoed everywhere. The ball darted left as he swiped right. "They'll feel that one in a moment," the announcer stated. "Rookblade had better"...
It didn't matter. On his second swipe, the ball was in his hand. He raised his fist in triumph as "Wait til his team scores another twenty" echoed around the stadium.
Brandon couldn't believe what had just happened. He pulled his broom to a stop and watched the replay. Seamans, one of his chasers had grabbed the Quaffle, and sped down the field. A Saguaro chaser had flew up from below, knocking Seamans off his broom, causing him to drop the Quaffle before free falling several dozen feet to the grass below. He knew now, that was the 'That's gonna hurt' he had heard. A Saguaro player had grabbed the Quaffle out of mid air and sped the other direction with it. The screen split into two at that point, one half following the chaser, and on the other, he saw himself in hot pursuit of the Snitch. The Chaser raised her hand at nearly the same time as Brandon had, and after the Quaffle had soared through the goal, his hand had clasped the Golden Snitch in his clutches. The Green-and-Ebony clad fans in the stands were going crazy. The Saguaros had won 310-300 because of a miscalculation on Brandon's behalf.
Brandon cursed and threw the Snitch towards the field below, although all that did was cause the snitch to fly away again after righting itself forty feet away. He slowly lowered his broom onto the field, where all the other players and coaching staff were. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he dismounted the broom and cast it aside, staring at the green grass below him. The gates to the stands opened, letting all the fans onto the field to mingle with the players, but he stood rooted to the spot. Most Saguaro fans flooded over to congratulate their teams, while all the Wolves fans moved past him to go comfort his teammates on the hard loss. He stood, frozen, near midfield, his eyes unblinking, cursing himself on his rash decision to grab the snitch. He stood there, seemingly forever, caught in an infinite loop in his head, of the last ten seconds of the game.
The murmur of the witches and wizards in the stands wasn't anything near what he had heard the Wisconsinites give for their Muggle sports team, the Green Bay Packers, but he also knew that there were not nearly as many witches and wizards that loved the Wolves as there were muggles that loved the Packers. He had traveled everywhere in the United States to play Quidditch, and no matter where he went, he'd meet at least one person that would lovingly speak about this 'Football' team that wore green and gold. He wished his upstart team had such a following.
Sure, the magical community in this state were ecstatic to learn they were finally getting a Quidditch team after nearly 230 years of the forming of their country, but the turnouts had been less than the Wolves had hoped for. Their popularity was growing, season by season, but the stadium was only half full for their home games, still a far cry from those at Lambeau Field in Green Bay. The Wisconsin Wolves Quidditch team, set a bit outside Hayward, Wisconsin, were playing another game in their stadium meant to house seventy-three thousand people. Due to their love of the muggle sport of "Football" (even Brandon had started to love it), they had modeled the stadium after the famous field in Green Bay, a few hours away. It was modified for the Wizarding Sport, of course, but meant to hold the same amount of people. "If individuals were going to drive to Green Bay, two hours away form Milwaukee, then why shouldn't they travel up to Hayward for a Quidditch match", the owners had argued.
Brandon sat high above the action, his gray robes with gold trimming flapping lazily in the breeze. The score wasn't looking good. The Scottsdale Saguaros were beating them handily- 150 to 300. While the players in this stadium weren't nearly as fantastic or agile as those Brandon had watched as a child in England, he still had to hand it to them; They were a bit more physical. Football here in America had seeped into the sport in almost every way possible. Some of the rules for roughing other players had been laxed a bit, and time outs were more of a thing.
He watched the Chasers whiz about, passing the Quaffle back and forth, he watched as the Bludgers were hit to and fro, although most ignored him for being as high up as he was. He wasn't worried about those, he was only worried about one thing; The Golden Snitch. He had been signed on almost instantly when the team leaders heard he had played for Hogwarts and was playing in America before moving back home to Britain.
His eyes scanned the field, much as it did back in his Hogwarts days, hoping to catch a glint of the elusive, flying ball. He had been hunting it for a good three hours at this point, his patience wearing thin. He noticed the other seeker, Miranda Gill, had dropped below the game and was looking from a different angle. He cursed himself for not thinking of that sooner. With a game going this late into the night as this, if the Snitch was flying high, the lights would never reach it up here. He shot downwards in a steep dive, putting a determined look on his face. This maneuver had worked at Hogwarts, why couldn't it work here?
"Rookblade drops into a steep dive," the announcer called, happily, "has he seen the Snitch?" He angled himself to the far side of the field from her, taking one hand off the broom. As he shot past one of his beaters, he yelled "Take her out," his eyes never leaving his invisible prize. Boulton nodded to him, taking off after a bludger. Brandon grimaced as his broom reached top speed, and he pulled himself into a mind-numbing U-turn near the ground. He saw Miranda draw up behind him, using him to draft her way closer to the prize she though was before him. He reached out a hand at nothing, smiling as Boulton called down "Rook-up!" Brandon wrenched his broom skyward as the bludger came hurtling toward him. It passed inches below the twigs of the back of his broom, only to collide with the woman that had, until recently, been hot on his tail. There was a sickening crunch a moment later as the ball collided with her face, and an audible gasp from the crowd as she fell the twenty feet from her broom to the grass below.
"An amazing feint by the Wolves' Seeker, aided by his beater," the announcer blared, "the medical staff were already on their way out when they realized what Rookblade was doing." Brandon cheered internally upon hearing this. His opposing seeker was out of the game, and he had less competition now. He chanced a look back at the unfortunate woman, though his eyes never focused on her, as when he did so, a tiny, golden ball sped past, inches from his face. He pulled up until he was flying with the ground above him, the wind rushing through his ears.
As he righted himself, the announcer cheered "Rookblade's seen it this time," the chase hot in pursuit. He knew that if he caught the Snitch now, the game would end in a tie. He had to put his faith in his chasers that they'd score before he caught the little thing. His eyes narrowed, focusing in on the Snitch as "The Wolves take possession on the Quaffle" blared in his ears. This was good news. Now all he had to do was follow until they scored...
"Oh, that looks like it hurts," the announcer screamed. Brandon didn't dare turn his eyes away from the sphere of gold before him to see what happened. Doing so could mean ending the game in moments or searching for another three hours. He leaned forward, willing his broom to go even faster than it had before, trying to catch up. He drew nearer, his focus only on the ball, when he heard "SCORE!" ring in his ears. His hand darted off the broom and reached for the Snitch. "SCORE! AMAZING SHOT," Echoed everywhere. The ball darted left as he swiped right. "They'll feel that one in a moment," the announcer stated. "Rookblade had better"...
It didn't matter. On his second swipe, the ball was in his hand. He raised his fist in triumph as "Wait til his team scores another twenty" echoed around the stadium.
Brandon couldn't believe what had just happened. He pulled his broom to a stop and watched the replay. Seamans, one of his chasers had grabbed the Quaffle, and sped down the field. A Saguaro chaser had flew up from below, knocking Seamans off his broom, causing him to drop the Quaffle before free falling several dozen feet to the grass below. He knew now, that was the 'That's gonna hurt' he had heard. A Saguaro player had grabbed the Quaffle out of mid air and sped the other direction with it. The screen split into two at that point, one half following the chaser, and on the other, he saw himself in hot pursuit of the Snitch. The Chaser raised her hand at nearly the same time as Brandon had, and after the Quaffle had soared through the goal, his hand had clasped the Golden Snitch in his clutches. The Green-and-Ebony clad fans in the stands were going crazy. The Saguaros had won 310-300 because of a miscalculation on Brandon's behalf.
Brandon cursed and threw the Snitch towards the field below, although all that did was cause the snitch to fly away again after righting itself forty feet away. He slowly lowered his broom onto the field, where all the other players and coaching staff were. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he dismounted the broom and cast it aside, staring at the green grass below him. The gates to the stands opened, letting all the fans onto the field to mingle with the players, but he stood rooted to the spot. Most Saguaro fans flooded over to congratulate their teams, while all the Wolves fans moved past him to go comfort his teammates on the hard loss. He stood, frozen, near midfield, his eyes unblinking, cursing himself on his rash decision to grab the snitch. He stood there, seemingly forever, caught in an infinite loop in his head, of the last ten seconds of the game.